10. Stellan
STELLAN
Ishould distance myself.
The thought circles through my mind like a mantra, has been circling for three days now, ever since the smoke cleared and the dead were counted and I carried Marcus's body to the makeshift morgue.
I should distance myself. I should give her space.
I should remember what I am, what I did, what she saw me become on that battlefield.
Instead, I'm sitting in a chair at the edge of the women's sleeping area at three in the morning, watching Esmerelda breathe.
The temporary quarters are crowded, cots arranged in tight rows to accommodate all the women displaced by the attack on the east wing.
Margot has been sleeping in the medical bay beside Roman, who still hasn't woken up, but everyone else is here.
Kira and Eliza and Camille and June and Esmerelda, arranged in a cluster that speaks to the bonds they've formed over the past week.
She's sleeping on her side, her copper-streaked hair fanned across the thin pillow, one hand curled under her chin like a child.
In sleep, her face loses the careful composure she maintains during the day, the gentle mask that hides how much the attack affected her.
In sleep, I can see the furrow between her brows, the way her mouth tightens occasionally around a dream she can't escape.
She's having nightmares. I know because I've watched her through three nights now, and every night she jerks awake at least once, gasping, her eyes searching the darkness until they find me.
Then she settles. Closes her eyes again. Goes back to sleep.
I tell myself I'm here for protection. The compound is still compromised, still vulnerable to another attack. Someone needs to watch over the women while they sleep. It's my assignment, my duty, my responsibility.
But I've never watched the others the way I watch her. I've never counted their breaths, tracked their movements, felt my whole body relax when they shift and settle deeper into rest. The beast inside me doesn't growl when other men approach Kira or Eliza or Camille.
Only her. Always her.
Morning comes too quickly.
I should leave before she wakes up. Should retreat to my post, resume the pretense of professional distance, act like I haven't spent the last three nights memorizing the rhythm of her breathing.
But when her eyes flutter open, I'm still there, still sitting in my chair like some overgrown guardian, and the smile that crosses her face when she sees me makes the beast purr with satisfaction.
"You're still here," she says, her voice rough with sleep.
"I had watch duty."
"All night? Every night?"
I don't answer, because the truth would be too revealing, too much. Three nights of watching her sleep. Three nights of telling myself I'm doing my job while the beast settled in my chest like a cat in sunlight, content just to be near her.
She sits up slowly, pushing hair out of her face, and I have to look away because she's too soft, too warm, too everything in the pale morning light. The other women are starting to stir around us, the quiet of the night giving way to the sounds of a compound trying to rebuild itself.
"Have you eaten?" she asks.
"I'm fine."
"That's not what I asked." She swings her legs over the side of the cot, reaching for the sweater someone left folded at the foot of her bed. "Come on. Eliza's been stress-baking enough to feed an army. We can get breakfast together."
Together. The word settles into my chest alongside the beast's quiet hum.
I should say no. Should maintain the distance that keeps her safe from what I am. Should remember that I killed six people in front of her three days ago and that no amount of morning coffee can erase the blood on my hands.
"Okay," I say instead.
Her smile widens, and the beast purrs louder.
The temporary mess area is crowded with brothers getting their morning meals, the low hum of conversation mixing with the sounds of rebuilding that have become constant over the past few days.
The attack destroyed nearly a third of the compound, but the Ironfang doesn't stop, doesn't rest. We rebuild while we mourn.
We prepare for the next assault while we bury our dead.
Esmerelda leads me to a table in the corner, away from the main clusters of people, and I'm grateful for her instinct to give me space.
The beast is restless this morning, stirred up by the crowded room and the presence of so many potential threats, and having her close is the only thing keeping the hum from building into something dangerous.
"Here." Eliza appears with two plates loaded with food, her red hair pulled back in a messy bun, flour dusted across her apron. "Eggs, bacon, biscuits. I made extra because I figured the big guy would need more than one portion."
I stare at the plate. It's easily three times the size of Esmerelda's, piled high with food.
"Eat," Eliza says firmly. "You've been running on nothing but caffeine and stubbornness for three days. I asked the brothers. They said you haven't touched real food since before the attack."
"I'm not hungry."
"I don't care. Eat." She crosses her arms, and there's something fierce in her expression that reminds me why Harlan fell for her. "Marcus wouldn't have wanted you to starve yourself."
The mention of his name hits like a physical blow. I close my eyes, counting to seven, and when I open them Eliza is gone but Esmerelda's hand is on my arm. That small point of contact, warm and steady, grounding me.
"She's right," Esmerelda says quietly. "You need to take care of yourself."
"I don't know how." The confession slips out before I can stop it. "I don't—without him, without that ridiculous optimism following me around, I don't know how to remember that I'm supposed to eat. Sleep. Be human."
"Then let me remind you." Her thumb traces a small circle on my forearm. "That's what I'm here for."
I pick up my fork. The food tastes like nothing, but I eat it anyway, because she asked and because the beast settles when she's pleased.
Halfway through the meal, Elias approaches our table.
He's just walking over, casual, probably intending to check on Esmerelda the way he's checked on all the women since the attack.
He's one of the good ones, steady and reliable, devoted to Camille in a way that makes the rest of us uncomfortable with how obvious it is.
There's nothing threatening about his approach, nothing that should make the beast stir.
But it does.
The growl starts low in my chest, building before I can stop it, and I feel my lip curl, my body tense, my hands clench on the edge of the table. The hum spikes, sharp and sudden, and for one terrifying moment I'm not sure if I'm going to be able to stay in my seat.
Elias stops mid-step, freezing in place, his golden eyes going wide with sudden wariness. He raises both hands slowly, deliberately, palms out in the universal gesture of surrender, the movement carefully non-threatening.
"Easy, big guy." His voice is measured, careful, calm in the way you'd speak to a spooked animal. "Just being friendly. Not trying to cause any trouble here."
I force myself to breathe through the aggressive surge. Count to seven, the way I've done a thousand times before. Release my white-knuckled grip on the table's edge, which now has deep finger-shaped dents pressed into the solid wood.
"I know," I manage through clenched teeth, fighting for control. "I know you're not."
Elias backs away slowly, returning to the table where Camille is watching with raised eyebrows. I can feel every eye in the room on me, can hear the whispers starting, the speculation about what just happened. The berserker growled at a brother. Over a human woman. In the middle of breakfast.
"I'm sorry," I say to Esmerelda, unable to meet her eyes. "I don't know why?—"
"Yes, you do." Her voice is gentle, and when I look at her, she's smiling. Not afraid. Not disgusted. Just... accepting. "The beast is protective. I've noticed it before. The way it settles when I'm near, the way it watches when anyone else gets too close."
"It's not safe. If I can't control it around my own brothers?—"
"You did control it. You felt the growl coming, and you stopped it. That's control, Stellan."
I want to believe her. The beast wants to believe her. But fifteen years of being the monster, the weapon, the thing people fear—it doesn't disappear just because a woman with warm brown eyes tells me I'm more than that.
Camille appears at our table a moment later, sliding into the seat across from us with the casual confidence that defines everything she does.
"Did you just growl at my husband?" she asks.
"The beast doesn't—" I stop, shame burning in my chest. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be." She leans back, crossing her arms, and there's something almost amused in her expression. "It's kind of sweet. In a terrifying way."
"Sweet?"
"You're protective of her. The beast is protective of her.
That means something." Camille glances at Esmerelda, something passing between them that I don't understand.
"Just maybe give Elias a heads-up before he approaches next time.
He thought he was going to have to fight you over scrambled eggs. "
She leaves before I can respond, and I'm left staring at Esmerelda with no idea what to say.
"They're not afraid of you," she says softly. "They're happy for you."
"Happy?"
"You've been alone for so long. They want you to have something good." She squeezes my arm. "They can see that I'm that something."
I don't have words for what she's saying, for the implications of it. So I just sit there, the beast purring contentedly in my chest, and I let her be right.
Kieran finds me that evening.
I'm outside the compound, standing at the edge of the construction zone where brothers are working to shore up the damaged walls. The sun is setting, painting the desert in shades of orange and red, and the beast is quiet in a way it hasn't been in fifteen years.
"She's your anchor."
I turn to find Kieran watching me, his expression unreadable. He looks exhausted, the past few days of crisis management taking their toll, but there's something in his eyes that I've rarely seen from him. Something almost gentle.
"What?"
"I watched you come back during the attack. She reached for you, and you came back faster than I've ever seen. Faster than I've ever brought you back." He steps closer, his gaze steady. "The beast doesn't want to hurt her. It wants to protect her. That's what an anchor is."
"That's not possible." The denial comes automatically, the same thing I've been telling myself since the attack. "Anchors take years to develop. Trust, familiarity, pattern recognition. You're my anchor because of fifteen years of history. She's been here for a week."
"Time doesn't matter. Connection does." Kieran's hand lands on my shoulder, heavy and grounding. "I've watched you for three days, brother. When she's near, you're calmer. The hum is quieter. The beast settles instead of straining. Tell me that's not what I'm seeing."
I can't. Because it's true, every word of it. The beast recognizes her in ways I don't understand, responds to her presence like a compass finding north. When she touches me, the red recedes. When she speaks, I can hear her through the roar.
"And if I lose control anyway?" The fear is old and deep, carved into me by the memory of Mira's face when she saw what I'd become. "What if the anchor isn't enough? What if I hurt her?"
"Then you remember her voice. You remember her touch. You come back." Kieran's grip tightens briefly before releasing. "For fifteen years, I've been your anchor. I've talked you down four times, guided you back from the edge when no one else could reach you. I was your lifeline."
"Kieran—"
"Now you have someone else. That's not a loss, Stellan.
That's a gift." He meets my eyes, and there's something raw in his expression, something that speaks to a grief I've never fully understood.
"Some of us don't get that. Some of us had our anchors taken from us.
Don't waste what you've been given because you're afraid. "
I think about the hints he's dropped over the years, the shadows that cross his face when he thinks no one is watching, the reason he's never taken an old lady despite being President of the club for over a decade. Something happened to Kieran. Someone was taken from him.
"You've never told me," I say quietly. "About her. About what happened."
"No. I haven't." He looks away, toward the sunset, and for a moment he seems older than his years. "Someday I will. But not today. Today is about you, and about the woman who reached for you when anyone else would have run."
"I don't deserve her."
"Maybe not. But she's choosing you anyway." Kieran almost smiles. "Don't be an idiot about it."
He walks away, leaving me alone with the sunset and the quiet hum of the beast, and I think about what he said. About anchors and gifts and not wasting what I've been given.
Esmerelda is in the compound somewhere, probably helping Eliza in the kitchen or sitting with Margot at Roman's bedside. She's been doing that since the attack, finding ways to be useful, to help, to give. It's who she is, this woman who can't stop reaching for people who need her.
She reached for me. After everything, she reached for me.
Maybe Kieran is right. Maybe I don't have to understand it. Maybe I just have to stop fighting it.
The beast purrs its agreement, and for the first time in fifteen years, I let myself want something I'm terrified to have.